


take your flowers to the drum

by sosobriquet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Acts of Service as a Love Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Mesoamerica, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, But In Mesoamerica, Canon Paralell, Canon Rewrite, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times Cold Open, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Historical Redo, Historical Setting: Ancient Mesoamerica, Hurt/Comfort, Love Language, M/M, Mesoamerican influences, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, historical fuckery, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25415194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet
Summary: An alternate history, if you will, in which Aziraphale Falls instead of Crowley, and Eden isn't just in one place at one time.The demon tempts the humans, but not quite in the way you'd expect. The angel banishes the humans from Eden, just as you've been told. This time, their future lies to the West. I bet you weren't expecting that. (Unless, of course, you read the tags.)An angel and a demon follow the first humans westward, out of Eden and into a new land.  They help and hinder as suits them, or as they're bidden by their Head Offices.Amongst the rivers and the plateaus, the jungles and the forests, they’ll forge a new and unlikely friendship.  And perhaps something even more rebellious.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	take your flowers to the drum

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the mods of diws for putting on such a wonderful event!
> 
> Thanks to my amazingly talented artist [Callus_Ran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callus_Ran/pseuds/Callus_Ran) for her help and input and gorgeous art!
> 
> And thanks to [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh) and [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeforeCrimson/pseuds/D20Owlbear) and [dwarrowkings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/dwarrowkings) for beta work, hand holding, and research resources!

_“Get up there and cause some trouble,”_ Aziraphale's superiors had instructed, rather nonspecifically, and then left him to his own devices.

And so Aziraphale had; stealing a blessed weapon from one of the protectors of Paradise. He felt rather pleased with himself, though he had done little more than pick up an abandoned axe and then flee when he heard someone coming. If he says simply that he stole the tlaximaltepoztli, his superiors are sure to congratulate him and not ask how he came to do such a thing. They are no longer as keen to ask questions as they once were.

A tempting fragrance drifts on the air, catching Aziraphale’s attention. He follows it to a spindly little tree dotted with small yellow to red fruits and even smaller, delicate pink flowers. He plucks one of the small red fruits gently from an almost bare branch. It is soft between his fingers, and he brings it carefully to his mouth. He sinks his teeth into the smooth, bright red skin and into the soft, bright yellow pulp of the interior. _Ciruela,_ the name fills his head as the fruit fills his mouth, soft on his tongue but for the fibrous seed in the center which he must spit out.

It tastes delectable; light and sweet, with faint acidic and astringent notes coming through as it near melts in his mouth. Aziraphale catches himself humming his delight and immediately stifles it out of habit. Casting a guilty look around, Aziraphale sees only a single human amongst the thick grove of flowering trees. He watches the human sweep a curtain of long black hair back over a delicate shoulder, and plucks a small handful; one more for now, some for later. This time, he does not stifle the sounds of his pleasure, but still he is wary, and casts his senses out. There is no one to hear him, not even the human is close enough to hear, and even further away is the angel he had stolen the axe from.

Curious, he follows the human on a short tour of this small part of the garden of Eden. The human leads him, completely unawares, to the most wonderful treats he would never have been able to imagine before today.

First the human goes to a large, broad-leaved tree speckled with prickly-skinned green fruits and velvety-looking pale yellow flowers. He watches the human pick one of the green fruits and cut it open with a knife, then scoop the pale flesh carefully into their mouth with it. When the human moves on, Aziraphale approaches the tree himself.

He plucks a flower from the tree and breathes deep, savoring its sweet scent before tucking it behind his ear. He plucks one of the fruits next, and its name comes to him as he touches it - _guanábana._ He has no knife, but uses his pilfered axe to slice it in half, setting one half aside and holding the other to eat now. Knowing the skin can’t be eaten, he scoops the creamy white flesh from the skin with his fingers, avoiding the core of tough black seeds. The flesh is creamy, sweet, and sharp with citrus and leaves him feeling _hungry_ in a way he’s never known before.

Next, he watches the human pick a bright red flower from a leafy bush and eat it, petal by petal. _Hibiscus._ He does the same, making a soft noise of surprise at the silky texture and tart flavor of the petals. Then he tries another small fruit called _huaya_. Its skin is green and too thick to bite through, but he has watched the human peeling back the tough skin to get to the soft orange pulp and follows their example.

For each wondrous delicacy he tries, he tucks another into his robe for later - except for the prickly pear, which smells sweet and _cool,_ but pricks his fingers when he tries to pluck it from its even more prickly host. He is not close enough to see how the human accomplished this, and too shy to call out and ask.

As Aziraphale turns away from that disappointment, a sweet, alluring odor fills his nose, and he follows it to the base of a low hill. At the top, Aziraphale can see a small, bushy sort of tree weighed down with fruits ranging from a pale yellow to a bright orange, and dotted with pretty, fragrant white blooms.

He climbs the hill; a task which gets harder with every step, as if something is trying to keep him from going further. Aziraphale, however, will not be dissuaded.

As he reaches the small, thorny tree at the summit of the hill, he plucks a pale orange fruit from a low-hanging branch. His belly is full with the fruits of his curiosity, but his appetite for all the tastes of Paradise has only increased.

The fruit feels firm in his hand, but not too hard to bite into, and he brings it up to his mouth to test it between his teeth. He bites easily through the skin and into the soft flesh inside, its flavor exploding on his tongue. The first bitter taste of the rind makes his mouth water, followed by the delicate sweetness of the juicy interior.

It tastes, well, _heavenly_ , if the slight burn on his tongue is any indication. He savors every bite; the way the faint burn spreads through him, the tingling from his fingers to his toes, the strange and pleasant faint buzzing of his brain. He loses track of the human as his attention drifts to the angel searching for the tlaximaltepoztli that hangs from the cord of Aziraphale's robe.

The angel sounds annoyed and anxious as they search the rocks where they left it (and Aziraphale found it). He can sense when they give up the search among the rocks and drift into the edges of the jungle. Aziraphale knows when their anxiety spikes, too, and he feels a very un-demonly pang of guilt for having caused it.

Perhaps his assignment won't bring too much trouble down upon the unfortunate angel. Aziraphale's wing joints ache in sympathy, and he closes his eyes and shudders to think of the possible consequences for the _trouble_ he’d been told to cause. Without meaning to, he begins to consider returning the axe to the place he found it and finding some other mischief to cause.

"Who are you?" a voice demands, very close to his right, and he startles so that drops what little remains of the fruit he'd been eating.

"Is that a tejocote you're eating?" the human demands without waiting for his first answer. It's clear, up close, that the human is a woman.

"My name is Aziraphale," he offers instinctively, and his willingness to do so seems to reassure her.

"My name is Ixchel," she offers in return, and they share an awkward smile.

"Is that what you call it? Tejocote?" Aziraphale asks after a brief and wary silence.

She nods, giving him an appraising look. "What does it taste like?" she asks, full of such hungry curiosity it gives him pause.

Why it makes him feel nervous, he cannot recall, so in the interest of encouraging further conversation, he fumbles for the spare he had tucked into his robes before.

Best not take an extra one of these back to Hell with him anyway, he thinks as he holds it out to her.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to describe it," he says apologetically, gesturing for her to take it.

She hesitates, casting a suspicious look from his hands, up to his face, and back again[1].

"Would you like to try one?" he offers more clearly, thinking she has misunderstood his intent. "Nothing else I have tasted compares, truly," he says sincerely.

And it is true. Even the ambrosia of Heaven, even the symphony of all the heavenly choirs singing at once, somehow did not compare to this simple, golden-fleshed fruit from a humble bush of a tree.

She takes the fruit from his hands, turning it over in hers, seeming to memorize the feel of it in her hands.

"Ixchel," Aziraphale says thoughtfully as she contemplates the fruit he has given her, "that's a pretty name. Does it mean anything?"

She holds the fruit to her lips and breathes deeply, taking in the musky-sweet scent that had led Aziraphale to it.

Her dark eyes meet his over the bright yellow rind, and he sees himself and the golden curve of the tejocote reflected in them. "A rainbow," she says, and sinks her teeth into the fruit.

* * *

The sun has not yet risen over the mountains when a voice breaks the silence of the waning night, interrupting the angel’s work.

"Crowley," Tzakol says with quiet interest, "what are you doing?" He never seems particularly interested in the _what_ , really, only that Crowley is doing it. Most times, Crowley finds it charming. Today, of all days, he finds it draining.

_Good,_ he tries to tell himself, _I will not have to find them to tell them the news._

'Crowley', as the humans call him[2], sets aside the last of the boulders he has spent the entirety of the night moving. He feels tired beyond reckoning, but not from his work. The weight of the entire mountain should be as nothing to him, and it is.

Fatigue is not something an angel should feel, ever. He is not a very good angel.

"I am clearing a path, Tzakol," he says, the words heavy and bitter in his mouth.

Behind him is the opening to a deep, dark cave that had been hidden until today. The cave will lead them out of Paradise and into the world, soon, and it will be Crowley's fault. His stomach twists in his belly, and he tries not to let it show on his face.

"A path to where?" asks Ixchel, too bright-eyed and curious. She looks more eager than afraid. Crowley is certain that was not the aim of his superiors.

"To the world," Crowley answers, trying to make it sound more like a beginning than an end.

Both humans peer around him at the dark and yawning cave entrance. Tzakol does not look so eager, but rather cautiously optimistic. He has never been so bold as his mate. Her eyes are sharp and bright, her expression full of a longing that plucks at the threads of Crowley’s resolve.

Time for The Speech, then, before he loses his nerve.

"For consuming the fruit you knew to be forbidden, you must leave the safety of the garden and go out into the world," Crowley says sternly, for all he does not feel it, "you may take whatever you can carry, but no more."

They look at Crowley, then back to the cave. Tzakol looks confused, and a little hurt, perhaps. Ixchel reaches for his hand, looking determined, maybe even excited. New life stirs in her belly, but Crowley does not think that she realizes.

"Please," he says fervently, "you cannot let the sun set on you here." With that, he spreads his wings and takes flight. Up the mountain, so high that he can keep an eye on them and not have to see their faces.

From behind a bush, Aziraphale watches the exchange, a sick feeling twisting his belly into knots. Though he has tasted of Eden’s bounty all through the night, it is no bellyache. Nourishment has never yet done any harm, things such as poison and excess do not yet exist. It is guilt that turns Aziraphale’s stomach, and it is an old friend.

Something about the angel plucks at Aziraphale; not his copper-red hair, nor the pinpricks of golden light dotting his skin, but something about his voice strikes a chord in the hollow of Aziraphale’s chest. He cannot look away, entranced by the spread of shining black wings as the angel takes flight. He watches as the angel soars higher and higher, despite his eyes watering from the glare of the rising sun. When sunlight at last crests over the mountaintop, he cannot help but blink in the flood of light, and loses sight of the angel.

Rubbing black spots from his vision[3], Aziraphale creeps out from his hiding place to investigate the cave’s dark maw. Cool air drifts from the opening, damp and oppressive, and it is so dark and lightless inside that even Aziraphale’s skin crawls with unease.

His fingers settle on the axe hanging from his waist and a sense of ease steals slowly over him. Yes, he knows what to do. He can give up his prize without fear of punishment from his superiors. He has done a far worse thing while in Eden than stealing a holy weapon, and he might as well claim it.

Tentatively casting his gaze up the mountainside, Aziraphale decides not to fly. The rising sun is too bright, and hurts his eyes even down here. He’ll be too vulnerable, flying in plain sight when he can hardly see himself. So instead, he climbs. Foot after foot, hand after hand, one careful glance upward after another; until he reaches the little plateau at the top where the guardian angel stands, so engrossed in watching the humans that he does not seem to have noticed Aziraphale at all. He levers himself up onto the ledge, keeping a wary eye on the busy angel.

“I believe this belongs to you,” Aziraphale offers, very quietly, once he is standing on his own two feet again. If he is smited for his trouble, well, perhaps he will be remembered anyway.

Crowley wheels to face the unfamiliar voice. Now that the humans below no longer have his full attention, he can taste the corruption of demonic energy in the air and it sets his teeth on edge. The speaker looks fair, but Crowley sees the telltale marks of a demon on it. Tawny downfeathers stick up from among pale blond curls, eyes that could almost pass for human - the pupils are too large and dark, the irises are strangely silver and taking up more of the eye than they should, so that only the very corners of his eyes show white.

The wings, a faintly mottled charcoal color, are a surprise[4]. It could not have flown and escaped Crowley’s notice; it must have climbed instead. It wears the dark robes of a demon, and it holds the tlaximaltepoztli in its outstretched hands like an offering; palms up, fingers open wide. It does not look up at Crowley’s face, but rather at the mountain beneath their feet.

For a moment, perhaps only a second, Crowley considers snatching tlaximaltepoztli from the demon’s hands and smiting it. How dare a demon defile Paradise with its presence! But it speaks again before Crowley has made up his mind.

“Will you give it to them?” it asks plaintively, still not looking up at Crowley. “So that they can protect themselves?”

The request takes Crowley by surprise. It must be some trick, coming from a demon, but he cannot fathom it. Not when he himself had been thinking that if he still had his axe, he would have given it to them as a parting gift.

“If you want the humans to have it, _you_ take it to them,” he snaps, and the demon looks at him at last, face twisted into a rueful smile.

“I doubt they will accept a gift from me again,” it begins, sounding almost sorrowful enough to be believed. “This is all my fault, you see, it was I who gave Ixchel the tejocote. It’s because of me that they must leave.”

Crowley grabs the axe from the demon’s hands. It does not flinch away from him, but curls in on itself a little and avoids meeting his eye. As if ashamed, or expecting pain. Sympathy takes root somewhere deep inside Crowley. He always knew himself to be too soft.

“I didn’t mean to,” it says very quietly, sounding anguished, “I didn’t know.” If it is some trick, Crowley cannot understand its purpose.

Crowley scoffs, “Fine, I’ll give it to them. It can light their way through the cave.” He turns to leave, then stops and looks back over his shoulder. “If I come back and you’re gone,” he threatens, letting his serpent’s tongue flicker out to commit the demon’s scent to memory, “I will hunt you down and smite you.”

Aziraphale, having no intention of going anywhere else, simply responds to the threat with an impassive look and a shrug. This appears to satisfy the angel, who steps back with one last menacing glare, and dives off the edge. Huge black wings spread, catching his weight and carrying him in elegant spirals down to the garden floor. Aziraphale watches, content to wait for his return. In the meantime, he intends to entertain himself by imagining the exchange going on below.

Down on the ground, Crowley sits near the humans and begins the work of settling a miracle deep into the axe handle. The pale wood of the yaxche tree is stubborn, and it would be easier to burn the miracle into the bronze head, but he needs the handle, not the head, to accept and obey a human’s hand.

Tzakol sees him bent, muttering, over the axe and pays him no more mind. He returns to his own work; painstakingly turning what had once been their sleeping mats into a pair of protective cloaks. Ixchel, however, watches intently while Crowley works. If there was any chance at all she could repeat what he’s doing, he might be concerned.

It still makes his skin crawl to be subjected to such intense scrutiny, but he tries not to think about it as he bends the axe handle to his will. When he thinks it’s done, he shows Ixchel how to use it and how to call up its fire, and feels sure that she will be able to use it as she needs it. He is less sure of how particular it will be with its loyalty, but he’s done the best he can with what he has.

"The cave is deep," Crowley warns, "you should leave soon if you hope to reach the other side before nightfall."

Ixchel's eyebrows are drawn together and her mouth twisted into a scowl. She opens her mouth to speak, but Tzakol grabs her hand.

"Thank you," he says to Crowley, quiet but firm. Ixchel shoots him a pointed look, but subsides and offers Crowley a little nod.

"I _am_ sorry," Crowley says sincerely, then turns away and takes flight, back up the mountain.

As Crowley nears the height of the peak, he sees the demon still waiting there, much to his surprise. He had not expected it to wait for his return,

“I see they accepted the axe,” Aziraphale says, loud enough to be heard over the angel’s wingbeats as he crests the ledge, “I didn’t know it could catch fire like that.” He is looking down at the humans, but he can feel the angel’s wary stare, sense his doubts and distrust.

The angel makes a quiet affirmative noise, landing lightly on his feet. He shakes his dark wings once, then folds them up close against his back with a sigh.

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale says earnestly, “That cave is too dark for human eyes.” He gives a little shudder at the thought of having to suffer a long walk in the damp and dark without a torch. _He_ would have been able to see, even in the darkest depths of the cave, but he does not like to be underground, where the walls press close and the air is thick.

“The tlaximaltepoztli is theirs now,” Crowley says softly, casting a perplexed glance at Aziraphale, “I hope it’s enough.”

“It’s certainly more good than I’ve done them,” Aziraphale says bitterly, pretending not to notice the way the angel studies him. Instead, he watches the humans far below. He cannot see their faces from up here; but he can see them gathering their things, can imagine Ixhcel’s eager expression.

“ _You_ asked me to give it to them,” the angel reminds him with a sharp look. He too is watching the humans down below, when he is not shooting barbed or befuddled looks at Aziraphale.

“It’s the least I could do,” Aziraphale insists, “I can’t take back the harm I’ve done, obviously. But that much I could do.” He allows himself a sideways glance at the angel, who chews at his lip, looking both thoughtful and confused.

“I truly did not mean to cause all this trouble,” Aziraphale says gently, hoping that the angel will believe him; but all he gets in return is a sharp glance and raised eyebrows.

“A _little_ trouble!” he confesses with a quiet, nervous chuckle that quickly turns somber. “Orders are orders, no matter how disagreeable, I’m sure you know.”

Crowley makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, annoyed to find himself agreeing with the demon. And worse, _sympathizing._ “I do,” he admits grudgingly, around a lump in his throat that shouldn’t be there. The humans are picking up the little bundles of supplies they’d collected, and starting toward the cave entrance. Ixchel leads the way, holding the bright torch of the tlaximaltepoztli in her hands.

"My name is Aziraphale," the demon offers, taking Crowley by surprise. That sounds like angelic speech, and this demon speaks it as if it does not burn him.

Seeing the angel's look of shock, Aziraphale offers him a small, reassuring smile. "You're thinking 'that's an angel's name', aren't you?"

Crowley nods slowly, looking at the demon - Aziraphale - expectant and curious.

"It was, once, but I changed the spelling, you see," Aziraphale looks away, feeling suddenly nervous. "Just a little," he continues to explain, "changed some of the letters, flipped a few." No one had ever heard his name and looked _interested_ before. Confused, yes, and even sometimes angry.

When he dares to look again, the angel only looks thoughtful, so Aziraphale continues. "The inflection isn't quite what it used to be. It only burns if I'm careless."

Crowley stares, a complicated feeling he does not know how to name blooming in his chest like a flower. “Crowley,” he offers, his voice catching in the middle. Aziraphale gives him a quizzical look and he clears his throat, feeling his face begin to burn. “You can call me Crowley,” he says, steadily this time.

Now it is Aziraphale’s turn to look surprised. Crowley could have said his proper name and done no lasting damage, but it would have _hurt._ Aziraphale hasn’t felt so warm since. Well, _since._ “Is that what the humans call you?” he asks, a sly and teasing smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

Crowley is slow to answer, caught tracking the progress of that smile. “Hm? They? The humans saw my black wings and called me Crow. Like the bird?” Crowley gestures vaguely, unsure if Aziraphale is familiar with the creature; but the demon nods slightly, as if he is, and his smile grows just a little more.

“I had to explain that I was not, in fact, _a crow_ , or any kind of bird at all,” Crowley finds himself smiling back, despite the pang of sadness he feels to recall his first meeting with the humans. “I said that they could call me Crowley, if they liked,” his voice softens. “Why give them a name they could never hope to speak.”

When he looks down the mountain again, he cannot see the humans any longer. They must be inside the cave already, and he crosses to the other side of the small mountaintop plateau to watch for their exit.

The demon - Aziraphale - trails after him, keeping his head tilted downward. “Where does the cave let out?” he asks, peering over the edge and shading his sensitive eyes with one hand.

Crowley scans the mountainside for a moment, looking for the familiar crest that marks the cave’s exit. “There it is,” he says, pointing, but Aziraphale seems to struggle to see it; casting his eyes back and forth, squinting into the sun.

A shadow falls over Aziraphale, and he blinks in the sudden shade of a dark and iridescent wing spread over him. The unexpected kindness of it lights a spark in him, a small and subtle glow deep in his dark and empty center, where there used to be an abundance of Love and Light.

His feelings must be written plain as day across his face; Crowley refuses to meet his eyes, or even look at him. His cheeks have gone pink beneath his golden dusting of freckles again.

Aziraphale reaches into his robe and pulls out a red hibiscus flower, slightly crumpled from the time spent tucked into his robes. He opens his fist slowly, letting the flower unfurl along with it, until it’s looking miraculously fresh, untouched, unspoiled. The sweet scent fills the air, and Aziraphale can see Crowley’s slow inhale.

He holds out his hand where Crowley cannot possibly miss it, and makes a soft, entreating noise low in his throat just for good measure. Crowley finally looks at him again. Or, the flower in his hand, at least.

“It’s delicious,” Aziraphale offers encouragingly, then his voice turns suddenly shy. “I thought you might like a taste?” Crowley’s gaze moves from the flower to the curve of the fingers holding it, lingers on the veins of his wrist, travels up the length of his arm to rest on his face. For the first time he notices that Crowley’s eyes are as golden as his freckles, and that he is just tall enough to lean slightly over Aziraphale as they stand half side-by-side, half facing one another.

Crowley’s fingertips brush his palm as he carefully takes the offering from Aziraphale’s hands.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Aziraphale has never felt anything quite like the tiny flame that flickers to life deep in his chest. It fills every hollowed out inch of him with an incandescent joy that he hasn't felt since Her Love was ripped from him.

"Best not," he replies, soft and smiling, and Crowley smiles back.

Footnotes

1. Ixchel knows that she has been told not to pluck a single one of the fruit that Aziraphale is offering to her. And yet no one has told her she cannot eat one, if it is given to her, only that neither she not Tzakol are permitted to remove them from the Tree. Aziraphale, of course, knows none of this.↩

2. Humans can no more speak an angel's true name than bear witness to their true form, after all.↩

3. Owl eyes were never meant for daylight, but for dark and moonless nights instead.↩

4. Demons lost their wings in the Fall, or so he’s been told, but this one seems to have grown them back.↩


End file.
